Let's Meet on Platform 8

by Carole Matthews

  The words froze on his lips and he spun to face the rest of the car, realising too late what he had done. Everyone else had lowered their newspapers; there were some smiles and some ill-disguised sneers and most of them looked at him expectantly. He attempted an embarrassed but light-hearted laugh, but it stuck in his throat and came out like an embarrassed cough.

  Reddened and suitably chastised, Jamie huddled behind his newspaper. The muffled announcement for Milton Keynes Central Station couldn’t come quick enough.

  Her arms were at least a foot longer, having dragged the unnecessary and expensive bag of shopping up the hill to her house. Teri massaged her forearms, which twinged painfully, through her dressing gown. She dipped in the carrier bag and spread the goodies she had bought for her and Jamie on the coffee table.

  Originally, she had thought they might eat them in bed—it was the sort of romantic thing they did in films. As she took the lid off the caviar, she realised it was probably as well to eat them downstairs in front of the telly—in films you didn’t appreciate the fact that it would leave the bedroom stinking of fish for weeks.

  She popped the cork of the champagne and let it fizz over into one of her tall best glasses without spilling too much on the lounge carpet. It was very melancholy, the sound of a cork being popped by one person. Traditionally, it was the signal for celebrations, parties, romantic couples—not commiserations and nights in by yourself.

  Perhaps she should have tried to phone Clare. She’d managed to track down one of her friends at the airport who had reluctantly divulged Clare’s new number. She could have pretended that all this was part of a peace offering.

  Teri bit into a heart-shaped biscuit piled with smoked salmon and caviar, cracking the livid green face-pack that she had smeared lovingly over her skin. She tutted, swallowed the rest of her biscuit, ate two tiger prawns and swilled them down with a gulp of champagne. Even Clare wasn’t that dim. She would have seen through Teri immediately and would have gone all Sister Mary Bernadette-ish again. No, ultimately, it was better to overindulge oneself alone.

  Teri used the remote control to switch on the television. Repeats of The Golden Girls. Repeats of Will and Grace. Repeats of Cheers. Or cricket— England versus Pakistan. Not a repeat, but not exactly a wild night’s viewing either. Cheers it had to be. Rainbow-trout mousse on a fish-shaped biscuit this time. And one tiger prawn.

  Teri wound tissues between her toes. She found the bottle of nail polish hiding behind the champagne bottle and filled her glass in passing. Caviar on its own piled on a boring round biscuit. She put her feet on the coffee table and painted each toe bright red, being careful not to paint the coffee table in the process. Caviar topped with smoked salmon on a diamond-shaped biscuit. Three prawns.

  She wondered what Jamie was doing now. Was he enjoying playing the dutiful father? Would Mr and Mrs Duncan be arm in arm, looking on tenderly and misty-eyed as Francesca did her party piece? Would it make him realise that Teri was superfluous to his life? She was outside his family unit, and why did he need her? Or would he be numbed by the drudgery of it all, stupefied by the singing six-year-olds, and realise that he wanted her, only her, and his freedom?

  But what if he did leave Pamela for her? Wouldn’t the whole jolly circus just start all over again? Teri wanted children. She wanted to go to school concerts. She wanted to go home to a house full to the brim of family commitments. What would happen then? Would he meet someone else—another willing, wistful woman on another packed commuter train?

  Jamie never talked of the future. He had never promised her anything, except for this weekend. Smoked salmon topped by rainbow-trout mousse topped by a tiger prawn and caviar on a frilly-edged biscuit. After burping, Teri excused herself with a swig of champagne.

  Cheers really was quite hilarious. Sam’s efforts to impress Diane were enough to make even the most depressed and disappointed person in the world laugh. Teri had some more champagne and started on the caramel meringues. Perhaps they were a little too rich on top of half a pound of smoked salmon, a tub of rainbow-trout mousse and two dozen tiger prawns—but it was only one teeny-tiny tin of caviar, and besides, they were such a temptation and it was true what she’d said to Jamie—cream didn’t keep.

  It was at the end when they started singing the theme tune that Teri began to feel ill. Before they got to the ‘everybody knows your name’ bit, Teri had to run. She was doing quite well until she reached the bottom of the stairs on her way up to the bathroom and the phone started to ring.

  What should she do? Charge upstairs, answer her call of nature and forget about the phone? But it could be Jamie. He would worry if she didn’t answer. Or should she answer and face the prospect of redecorating the hall?

  Desperately searching her dressing-gown pockets for tissues that didn’t resemble crispbreads, she decided to answer the phone. It was a decision she would live to regret.

  Chapter 18

  Jamie threw his briefcase into the hall and slammed the door. ‘What time does it start tonight?’ he shouted.

  The house was amazingly quiet. Strains of classical music floated through the hall— Vivaldi’s Four Seasons: Spring. Perhaps Pamela was getting herself into the mood for tonight. There was no MacTavish trying to whip Jamie’s legs from under him. No incessant babbling from Francesca about how horrid Jack had been to her. Instead there was a funny smell. No, not funny, just unusual. It was cheesy—in the nicest sense of the word. And garlicky. It smelt like proper food. Not Alphabites or Alphabetti Spaghetti or even fish fingers. Adult food.

  A puzzled look crossed Jamie’s face. They couldn’t be expecting anyone for dinner—they were going out. He took off his jacket and hung it over the banister—he would risk Pamela’s wrath later—and went into the kitchen.

  ‘What time… What on earth…!’ Jamie was struck speechless.

  Pamela was standing serenely in front of the cooker concentrating on stirring something in a pan. It was a halogen cooker, and there were red lights coming on and going off everywhere, indicating a hive of activity on the stove top—either that or an alien spacecraft was about to land in the kitchen. She was wearing a tight black dress—or rather a tight black dress was wearing her—and five-inch black stiletto heels. Her legs, which looked surprisingly long in heels that high and a skirt that short, were encased in fine fishnet, and her stocking tops were just visible at the hem of her skirt.

  Jamie loosened his tie, as it seemed to be making his eyes bulge. The dress had a low-cut neck and her breasts, balanced on top of the neckline, were pale and plump and misted damply from the steam in the kitchen. Jamie gulped. She wore a tiny white frilled apron, which obviously wasn’t designed to cope with major domestic spillages. Her deep auburn hair was wound in a knot at the back of her head, which made her neck look incredibly long and slender, particularly as there was such a long way from her chin to the start of her dress.

  ‘What are you doing?’ It was an inane question, but the best he could manage in the circumstances.

  ‘Cooking dinner.’ Pamela smiled sweetly. ‘Have you had a good day?’

  It certainly wasn’t one of his best, but at this rate it would probably count as one of his most memorable. He shrugged. ‘Okay.’

  ‘There’s a bottle of red wine breathing in the utility room.’ Jamie hoped it was doing better than he was. ‘Why don’t you take a glass up with you? Dinner will be ready as soon as you’ve showered.’

  Jamie’s eyebrows met in the middle. ‘I thought we were to be entertained by our budding flautist in Spring into Springtime tonight?’

  ‘I lied.’ Pamela smiled sweetly again. ‘That’s next week.’

  Jamie was dumbfounded. He looked round perplexed. ‘So where is everyone?’

  ‘The children are at my mother’s.’

  ‘Your mother’s?’ Jamie decided he would try the wine. ‘What did she think about that?’

  ‘She thought it was time we were alone as man and wife.’ Pamela held the spoon to her lips,
tasted it delicately, then ran her tongue over her lips. They were red and glossy.

  Jamie licked his lips.

  ‘Man and woman,’ she added seductively.

  Jamie swallowed hard. ‘And the dog?’

  ‘MacTavish is next door for the night.’

  Jamie popped into the utility room and found the bottle of wine. A good bottle, too. The wineglasses were in the cupboard next to the cooker, and it meant he would have to go within close proximity of the Lycra creation and the apron. He didn’t know if he was up to it without breaking into a sweat.

  Pamela normally wore silk and chiffon—floaty things. They were stylish but shapeless, covered in a profusion of muted flowers that finished somewhere round her ankles just before they reached her flat, sensible shoes that she had worn since she had given birth to Jack—because her back had never been quite the same. He didn’t think he would ever be quite the same either. If he had seen his wife’s bottom in Lycra before, he didn’t remember it—and he was sure that he would have. It was tight and small and very touchable.

  He yanked the cupboard open, grabbed two glasses, slammed the door shut and retreated to a safer part of the kitchen to busy himself with the process of pouring out the wine with trembling hands. He noticed that the table in the conservatory had been set for two. There were candles on it, and red roses in a crystal vase they had been given as a wedding present. The festoon blinds had been lowered slightly. He took a hearty swig of his wine and offered Pamela hers, too, in the vain hope that she might break her vow of temperance. She nodded demurely.

  ‘Go and shower,’ she said. ‘I’ll be ready when you come down. Don’t be long.’

  There was a sardonic twist to his smile as the wine started to relax him. ‘May I just ask you exactly what you’re cooking up?’

  ‘It’s from Cosmopolitan.’

  ‘I might have known.’

  ‘“How to liven up your home-cooking by giving it a more continental flavour.”’

  ‘Was the outfit Cosmo’s idea too?’

  ‘No.’ Pamela flushed attractively. ‘That was my own idea.’

  He took her glass of wine and placed it next to her, then stood behind her taking in the sweet cloying smell of her perfume and the even sweeter and more appetising smell of her cooking. He kissed her neck and felt her tremble. Nipping her earlobe, he whispered, ‘Then I’d better go and slip into something more comfortable, too.’

  Jamie wasn’t sure what the male equivalent of a French maid’s outfit was, so he settled on smart casual instead. Fawn trousers. A light silk shirt. Okay, so it had golf-type things all over it, but it was subtle—it didn’t scream golf and therefore was less likely to annoy Pamela. He put on black underpants in an attempt to look sexy. They hadn’t made love in months, but it was obviously on the menu tonight. He went downstairs with mounting trepidation—no pun intended.

  Pamela had lit the array of candles in the conservatory, and he had to admit that it looked very romantic. She brought in the steaming Cosmopolitan dish of continental delights, and he was sure that she bent over farther than she absolutely needed to while she was dishing up, given her back complaint. Perhaps it was just those shoes throwing her centre of gravity out?

  Cosmo’s idea of home meets continental cooking, it turned out, was nothing more threatening than a combination of shepherd’s pie and spaghetti Bolognese. The mince contained tomatoes, mushrooms, garlic and the other necessary components of Bolognese sauce, and the creamed-potato topping was heavily flavoured with Parmesan cheese. It smelt divine, and Pamela had taken the trouble to pipe ‘I love you’ on top of the potatoes.

  They ate slowly, watching each other’s mouths as they did so. Pamela seemed light-hearted, she laughed when he told a joke, even if it was a bad one, and he realised it must have been an effort for her. He wondered nervously what he had done to deserve this and what the bill, when it eventually came, would be.

  Pamela had abandoned Cosmopolitan for the dessert and had instead taken the advice of Delia Smith—goddess of calories, cream and cholesterol—and produced tiramisu. As he licked his spoon, Jamie marvelled at how Pamela had managed to fit it all within the constraints of the Lycra.

  She cleared the dishes, then returned and took his wineglass from him and placed it alongside hers on the sideboard. Elegantly, in one supple move, she hoisted herself onto the table and lay back seductively on the tablecloth, which was the one his mother had bought them for Christmas, and pulled her husband towards her by the lapels of his favourite golfing shirt.

  Obligingly, he undid her apron, throwing it manfully to the floor—there was going to be no dishwashing tonight—and joined her on the table. She unbuttoned his shirt.

  ‘Supposing the neighbours see us?’ he asked tentatively. It wasn’t every day that people made love on the breakfast table in the conservatory in full view of Fraughton-next-the-Green.

  ‘You are an old stick-in-the-mud, Jamie Duncan.’ She turned and blew out the candles in the candelabra. In the moonlit darkness he watched carefully as his black underpants sailed across the conservatory. His secretary had told him all about Animal Hospital again, a few days ago. She’d watched enraptured while the vet—the nice smiley one that she liked—had extracted a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine underpants from the stomach of a Labrador puppy. Apparently, it was touch-and-go whether the dog would make it. Jamie’s Thomas-free underpants landed on the floor in the corner. His last thought before he surrendered was that he must remember to retrieve them in the morning before MacTavish came home and ate them for his breakfast.

  They were in bed, Pamela curled against him. The lights were off, but they were both awake. Jamie cleared his throat. ‘I have to go away this weekend on a course. For work. Just Saturday and Sunday.’

  Pamela snapped her bedside light on. ‘A course?’ Her hair was loose on her shoulders. She still had her make-up on, but her red glossy lipstick was gone, kissed away by Delia’s tiramisu and his own traitorous lips. ‘This weekend? Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

  Jamie’s throat was dry. ‘It hardly seemed appropriate.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I know it’s short notice, but it really has only just come up.’

  She pulled her hair away from her face and stared at him. He could hardly withstand the intensity of her eyes. She was naked, and suddenly he couldn’t bear to look at her. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘What?’ He could hear his heart pounding. Why was he doing this? They had just had a wonderful evening—flirting, teasing, making love as if they were teenagers again.

  ‘I said I don’t believe you,’ she repeated.

  ‘Look—what’s brought this on? We’ve just had the best evening together in a long time.’

  ‘Exactly. We should be sharing a moment of intimacy and caring.’

  ‘Is that another one of Cosmo’s ideas?’ He couldn’t believe he was sounding so heartless. Was it his suspicion that this sudden reawakening of sexual interest could have more to do with Tom Pearson than with him? The thought of Pamela doing erotic things on dining room tables with her boss was making him feel sick.

  ‘No, it’s one of my ideas—and I hoped it would be one of yours. I don’t know how you can do this.’

  How could he do this with a ravishing woman, his wife, next to him? He didn’t know himself, so how on earth could he expect Pamela to understand? Did adultery lead directly to insanity? It certainly seemed to be doing so in his case.

  ‘What course is it?’ she asked tightly.

  ‘Management Ethics.’

  ‘Management Ethics!’ Pamela snorted. ‘It should be a short course then.’

  Jamie remained silent. It was the first thing that had come into his head, and he wished it hadn’t been.

  ‘Show me the joining instructions.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The joining instructions. For this course.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Pamela was kne
eling in front of him, clutching the duvet.

  ‘I haven’t got any.’

  ‘You’re a liar, Jamie Duncan. There are no joining instructions because there is no course.’ She had started to cry, and her sobs wrenched his soul from his body, but he was powerless to move, to comfort her, his limbs frozen by his own culpability. ‘I know where you’re going and you know I know where you’re going.’

  ‘I’m going on a course,’ he insisted. What sort of course? A collision course.

  She jumped from the bed and pulled her dressing gown round her, hiding her nakedness. ‘I’m going to sleep in Francesca’s room.’

  ‘You’ll be cold,’ Jamie warned, unable to think of anything more useful to say.

  ‘No colder than I feel now.’ Pamela’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to trust you again.’

  It was Jamie’s turn to shout. ‘And how do you think I feel, knowing that you’re with that cockney oil-slick!’

  Pamela looked shocked. She reeled slightly and steadied herself on the doorframe.

  ‘Don’t come the Goody Two-shoes with me, Pamela,’ he went on self-righteously. ‘It won’t wash. I thought you wanted it this way. You can’t change the rules whenever it suits you!’

  She walked out of the room quietly and sedately. He flung himself back on the bed, dejected and despising himself. He had ruined Teri’s evening, he had ruined Pamela’s evening and he had ruined his own evening. How soon would it be before he stooped to the level that Charlie had said he would, and ruined all of their lives completely?

  Chapter 19

  ‘She’s left me,’ he said flatly, staring out of the window at the view of neat parallel roads interspersed with derelict strips of land waiting expectantly for someone to come along and build another chrome-and-glass monstrosity on them. ‘Shirley’s left me.’